One Has So Many More Opinions About

I Couldn’t Bear To Think About The Proper Future, So I Just Tried To Make Things Better For The Next Twenty Minutes Or So, Over And Over Again.

You'll Remember Someone Who Broke Your Heart, And You'll Think To Yourself, 'oh Yes, I Remember How That Feels.' But You Can't.

All The Books We Own, Both Read And Unread, Are The Fullest Expression Of Self We Have At Our Disposal. ... But With Each Passing Year, And With Each Whimsical Purchase, Our Libraries Become More And More Able To Articulate Who We Are, Whether We Read The Books Or Not.

The Kind Of Love My Mum Talks About Is Full Of Worry And Work And Forgiving People And Putting Up With Things And Stuff Like That. It's Not A Lot Of Fun, That's For Sure. If That Really Is Love, The Kind My Mum Talks About, Then Nobody Can Ever Know If They Love Somebody, Can They? It Seems Like What She's Saying Is, If You're Pretty Sure You Love Somebody, The Way I Was Sure In Those Few Weeks, Then You Can't Love Them, Because That Isn't What Love Is. Trying To Understand What She Means By Love Would Do Your Head In.

No Time Spent With A Book Is Ever Entirely Wasted, Even If The Experience Is Not A Happy One: There’s Always Something To Be Learned. It’s Just That, Every Now And Again, You Can Hit A Patch Of Reading That Makes You Feel As If You’re Pootling About. [...] But What Can You Do About It? We Don’t Choose To Waste Our Reading Time; It Just Happens. The Books Let Us Down.